Unorthodox
by koneko zero
Summary: Mello knows how to use guns and explosives, but sometimes he's scariest with the unexpected. Some Mello/Matt. Oneshot.


**Title:** Unorthodox

**Spoilers: **None

**Warnings:**Shounen-ai, and Mello swears profusely.

**Summary: **Mello knows how to use guns and explosives, but sometimes he's scariest with the unexpected. Some Mello/Matt.

-- -- --

**UNORTHODOX**

--

Of course, it happens when it's dark. You'd have to be a complete fucking moron to attack a guy with such a badass facial scar and crazy eyes; unless you couldn't see them and he did just look like a sweet blonde with a sweet arse and a very, very nice fetish walking alone under the street lights.

The fact that he's only carrying one of Ghirardelli's extra-large bars of 86% Cacao and a wallet is further encouragement.

--

Mello is, for the first time this week, not too pissed off with the world. Sure, Matt had been acting like an utter diva that morning, turfing him out on errands –

Errands? Seriously? The poor bint at the chop-shop looked stunned when he just passed on a message rather than taking the dump well-and-truly over. Leather, peroxide and melted flesh really don't say "errand boy".

Unfortunately, whenever he makes this point, Matt is ever mental enough to make the "rent boy" retort. Twassock.

However. He hasn't had to carry random computer shit (Matt doesn't dare ask about gaming-related errands anymore after having to do his own cooking for a full week, and the lazy git could fix whatever else himself), and/or sully his hands with rust or oil. He even made it to Ghirardelli's just in time to snag a treat for his obliging behaviour. Now he can just head back to a warm apartment, a warm sofa, and a warm, very much alive, Matt.

The little geek might be a temperamental bitch with serious social issues and an excessively creepy webbed toe on his left foot, but he's a damn sight better company than the Mafia.

A damn better sight, too.

The feel of burned and scarred skin to the left of his mouth stretching and crinkling as he grins very nearly wipes the half-formed expression away.

Nearly.

That's Matt's doing, actually. The verbal assurances haven't meant much – as an ex-Mafioso, he knows how very cheaply such lies can come – but he's never forgotten the look of awe on Matt's face when he strutted into the living room in his leathers with his brand new sign of extreme masculinity, just daring him to flinch. He'd insisted on taking off the bandages and applying the various creams and lotions in private before then, but after that reaction he'd allowed Matt to help. Just once, as a test. The awe was still there. Tempered by other emotions, including a soft warmth that he still prays he hasn't overestimated and a tiny bit of sorrow the redhead had been trying hard to hide, but the awe was most certainly at the forefront. It was the first time Mello can remember feeling so entirely loved.

Mello himself has loved Matt since they were seven and Matt finally punched him back for a change before turning around and lying to Roger for him, but that was the moment he finally fell IN love with him.

If anyone asks, of course, it's the goggles. Naturally.

"Hey, babe."

The hand is unwelcome, and Mello doesn't hesitate.

--

The next afternoon, Mello walks into Ghirardelli's with a fistful of notes and buys almost fifty of the extra-large bars. When he hides them in various strategic locations around the flat, Matt doesn't so much as bat an eyelash.

Matt's the unflappable type. Mello likes that about him. It means he's reliable in a crisis and can –

No. Actually the bloody prat's just re-visiting X-Men Legends, and doesn't give a shit about the real world. The only thing he might notice… Well. He'd complain if a stray bullet damaged his fingers.

At this point, Mello is really rather scared to realise that he's only very slightly less impressed upon realising this, and mostly finds it sexy.

A sexy X-Men fanboy. This whole Kira situation really MUST be breaking down reality as he knows it.

--

Every officer in the three local stations knows Darren. He's a hard little shit who puts other scum in hospital on a scarily regular basis and mugs weaker lads every third Thursday to meet his rent.

So when he responds to the most recent summons sporting fresh bruises, cuts, cracked ribs and a badly fractured wrist, they're naturally curious.

"Fuck." There are eight pairs of wide eyes in the doorway.

"What, bastards?"

"Fu~uck."

"Don't I get some first-aid here?"

Sure, Darren's a dick, but the downtown cops sort-of like him because he keeps the smaller – and even some of the bigger – dicks in something resembling order, and he never lays a finger on his mugging victims. A kit and an interview room are found, and then the questions of what, how, and whether he needs help start coming thick and fast.

"Blonde transvestite. Grabbed the bastard's arse. Beat me up."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

The forensics guy looks up from his study of a particularly nasty mottled patch of skin, and asks, "What was the weapon?"

Darren almost keeps a half-decent poker face as he answers with a short, "None."

Almost.

"Those marks were not made by fists, mate, but I don't recognise 'em. What?"

"Piss off."

"WHAT." Jan's angry tone can make hardened sadists and murderers need clean pants, and Darren knows better than to try lying. It still takes half a minute of silence and some heavy-duty scowls to force an answer.

"Ghirardelli's 86% Cacao. Large bar."

How the fuck do you respond to that?

--

It takes a good five minutes for the laughter to stop, and after that comes the disbelief and speculation.

In the end, Jan gets sick of it all and hunts down the CCTV records from the warehouse across the road from the site of the "incident".

The hot blonde is well and truly terrifying; most officers wouldn't dare arrest him or press charges even if Darren asked them to - they just want the opportunity to shake his hand and ask how the heck he managed to calculate the exact amount of force required to break holds and crack ribs without really seeming to damage his snack.

That move, right there, slamming the corner into the back of his knee to strain the ligaments yet balancing it perfectly so as not to tear them. That was pure class.

The fact that, at the end, The Terror unwraps the bar and takes a vicious bite before smiling as he walks away from the broken, bleeding mass quivering against the wall… At least five of the men know right then that he'll be in their nightmares later.

"… Ok."

"Yeah."

"Well…"

"Yeah."

"I see."

"You do."

Darren's still openly pissed and sore, but he sympathises. It had been a shock to his system, too, that such a babe was A) male, and B) an utter fucking psycho.

He doesn't realise at the time, but he also just went off his preference for slim blondes.

--

A month later, the "risks" of living in a dodgy area in a dodgy flat with a dodgy lock rear their ugly heads against The Awesome Twosome (Mello is never going to tell Matt that he's given them such a team name in his head, not even for a Lindt bunny). They leave the annoyances unconscious in the lobby of the station three streets away.

Later that afternoon they go shopping for new a PS2 controller plus lead, and another ten bars of Ghirardelli's.

Mello can't help the proud smirk when Matt asks for lessons, or the warmth just above his diaphragm at the awe still visible behind the orange lenses.

-- -- --

Thank you for reading! If you have the time, please review. I've never written from Mello's side before, so I'd really appreciate feedback! No flames, please, but constructive criticism is very much welcomed.


End file.
